


Homemade

by Guy_Fleegman



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Jesse, Fluff, He's got a dog, and is happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 06:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21011366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guy_Fleegman/pseuds/Guy_Fleegman
Summary: Jesse is safe and happy and making pizza.





	Homemade

He’d never made homemade pizza before, but he had promised himself he’d try something new at least once a week. A sauce-stained piece of paper with scribbled instructions he’d gotten off the internet sat on the counter beside him; the red stain reminded him of…

“What?” he asked, craning his neck to consult the paper. From the floor, Boots quirked her head at him, ears upright, paws dirtying the mat under the sink. “Is that a…2?” Damn his chicken scratch!

Soft music sailed through the air, a low, rhythmic baseline settling in Jesse’s chest. He found himself humming along without meaning to. The window overhead the counter was frosted, turning everything on the other side of it into an abstract version of itself.

The oven dinged. His hands worked over time kneading the dough, it was soft and malleable under the thick of his hand. With each push downward his arms grew weaker; two minutes later they were shaking as he brought the sauce over from its time-out in the sink.

He hadn’t known what kitchen utensil to use for such a matter, so he’d decided on a simple spoon. Ladling spoon full after spoon full of sauce into the spreading pool of red in the middle of the dough, he used the back of the spoon to paint the corners of the tray.

Just a sprinkle of cheese. He furrowed his brow and sprinkled more, then more. A handful. Perfect. Each circle of pepperoni was placed individually and strategically; he almost got out a ruler.

His sock-clad feet bumped into Boots, jarring her up. Tail wagging, she skipped along side him in his journey four feet to the oven. Warm air blew in his face as he bent at the waist and opened the windowed door, placing the tray on the middle rack. The urge to check the instructions bit at his neck, but that would be insane attention to detail; he doubted which rack he placed it on would make much difference.

Flour smudges were left on his phone as he set a timer for 23 minutes, the speaker vibrating gently against his pinky as the music flew out.

Placing his phone screen down, he went to wash his hands. He used the soap that smelled like vanilla.

Elbows resting on the cool countertop, he thought twenty minutes was a stupid amount of time. Not long enough to get something serious done, yet too short to start a task. He watched through the window the blurry shapes he knew to be trees lean to the left when the wind picked up, then settle back when it eased.

Vanilla smelling fingers thrummed against his cheek in time with the music. A weight made itself at home on his feet; now he couldn’t move for fear of disturbing his princess, Boots.

A shiver ran down his back. It gave him the weirdest feeling, watching a harsh, uncomfortable environment from a quiet, safe place. Just under the music he could hear the roar of wind, and he could see its impact on the trees, yet he didn’t have to worry about it.

He closed his eyes.

Cooking sauce and dough wafted across his face, making his mouth grow wet. His still damp hands were colder than the rest of him. He could feel the deflation of Boots’ lungs as she breathed out. The ever-present wind outside grew more prevalent.

The music faded and the alarm went off. His eyes snapped open, pupil adjusting to the light again; it burned, but in a good way. The small of his back hurt from being hunched for so long.

Sliding an oven mitt over his hand, he opened the oven and grabbed the tray with the ungloved hand.

“Shit!” he yelled, hopping back, nearly tripping over Boots. “Fucking shit!” He jumped up and down, biting his lip. Cradling the injured limb close, he braved forward again. Burned hand pressed to his chest, he removed the searing tray with the correct hand. The metal clanked to the stovetop from five inches up.

“Bitch,” he said to it, getting his face close to the offending item; staring it down. It, obviously, didn’t take offense.

A quick inspection showed no real damage to the skin save some pinkness.

He pulled on another mitt, both hands now protected, and retrieved the pizza cutter. He may not have known much about cooking, but he knew you cut a pizza with a pizza cutter. Though that one wasn’t too difficult to figure out.

There was sauce everywhere and bald spots on the pizza by the time he was done slicing it up, but he simply shrugged and slid a few pieces onto a plate. He dropped the mitts to the counter, sauce clinging to the material.

After plopping down onto the couch, Boots next to him, he found that the remote was halfway across the room. Oh well, he’d watch the fire as he ate. He’d never had a real fireplace before, so he took full advantage of having one now. If he was at home, there would be the crackling and popping of burning logs.

The pizza was flimsy and drooped at the end, but he continued to eat it with his hands. Forks were for quitters. The rich sauce permeated in his mouth, the dough wasn’t perfect, but damn if it wasn’t great. He’d made it and it was great.

He smiled, pet Boots, ate his great pizza, and watched the fire.

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write Jesse living a domestic life and being okay. He deserves it.


End file.
